


...but the workings of your Heart.

by superblue



Series: Tho' it were ten thousand mile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Funeral, Multi, Omega John, Omegaverse, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/pseuds/superblue
Summary: Sherlock and John are finally figuring out how they fit together when an unwelcome figure from their past shatters their new life. Factor in one brother-in-law who only holds a "minor" position in the government and his schemes, and the future for our intrepid duo looks less and less certain.Direct sequel to "It won't be the War that kills you..." (a one-shot right now)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to "It won't be the War that kills you..." that begins immediately after that fic ends. You should read that story first because otherwise I seriously doubt this fic will make any sense to you.
> 
> I have been promising this sequel for almost a year, and here it is! It is not beta'd or brit-picked, so there you have it. Oh god, here I go again, once more down the rabbit hole!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The morning dawned bright, crisp, and surprisingly clear for January in central London. John went through the motions of making tea, pouring the water from the kettle, letting the tea bag steep to perfection, but it was all muscle memory. His heart wasn’t in it, and his head was miles away, focusing on the near future and the funeral he and his new bond-mate arranged merely a week ago.

Funerals were always difficult, and John counted himself among the vast majority of people who’d rather do anything but sit in the church, surrounded by grieving family and friends. But this funeral was different, this wasn’t about simply saying goodbye to one man, this was about paying his respects to someone he’d loved, who loved him desperately in return and sacrificed his very life for John’s own welfare.

“I can hear you thinking all the way from the bedroom,” Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, fiddling with his cufflinks and frowning at the small silver menaces. “You’re worried.”

John finally sat the kitchen table, thankful that it was clear (for once) of organs, experiments, and tests of any sordid sort. “A bit, yeah. Lestrade said he’d told his family about the funeral, they were pretty shocked, and I’m wondering…well, I suppose I’m afraid they won’t show.”

Sherlock stepped behind the chair, placing both hands on John’s shoulder and squeezed gently. A wash of calming Alpha pheromones accompanied the gesture, and John closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. It was love, it was support, and it was exactly what he needed. He smiled and forgot about his tea for moment, choosing instead to tilt his head upwards and smile ever so slightly.

“Come here you madman,” he gripped Sherlock’s suit jacket gently and tugged, and Sherlock, never one to miss so obvious a cue, bent down easily and met his love with a gentle, heartfelt kiss.

Sherlock smiled as John smoothed a hand down his long neck, his eyes landing on his flashy, and yet somehow tasteful tie. Sherlock hated ties – he considered them cheeky and stifling. This was Sherlock making an effort for John, and John couldn’t appreciate it more.

 “They will come. Despite the…unpleasant surprise, I calculated an 83.7% chance of the parents attending, and a possible 78.2% chance the brother will as well.”

“Oh, well, how can one argue with percentages?” John snorted, sipping his tea and taking great care not to spill even a drop on his brand new Jennis & Warmann camel coloured tweed suit. “I wonder how I could have ever worried at all.”

Sherlock moved from John’s side and clasped his hands in front of him, as if making a declaration. “You look very handsome today John.”

Now, that got his attention.

In the short time John had called 221B Baker Street his home (and the even shorter time he’d been able to call Sherlock Holmes his own) he’d managed to put on about two stone, mostly of muscle, though perhaps a bit of it in fat. It didn’t bother him much at all. He knew he was hideously malnourished and underweight when he first met Sherlock, as one was wont to be when they lived rough on London’s meaner streets, and though he would probably never get back to the same level of fitness he enjoyed while in the Army (new wounds notwithstanding), he was no longer afraid to look at his own refection in the bathroom mirror.

“You are unreasonably biased.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock sniffed, “I am merely stating a fact based upon my own observations.”

A genuinely pleased smile settled on John’s expressive face, and he finished his tea in two more swallows, standing to place the empty cup in the sink. “You’re biased.”

“I am a man of science, John, I have no bias.”

John turned to fix him with knowing expression, eyebrows raised.

“Alright, fine,” Sherlock deflated slightly, looking fairly childish and caught out, “I am biased.”

John chuckled and moved towards the Alpha, raising his hands to fasten the buttons of his jacket.

“But only a bit,” Sherlock really couldn’t leave it alone, much to John’s continuing amusement.

“Git.”

* * *

 

In the end, the service was a small, private affair, and the attendees numbered only a few. John sat with Sherlock in front, Brandy, Julia, and little Lilliana (tiny, wide-eyed, and brand new to this big, bright world) to their left while Marcus’s family sat alone on the right side of the church. Sarah and Bill sat more towards the back, and even through the prayers and short dedications, he could hear the young woman sniffling.

John himself had difficulty keeping his emotions in check. He wanted to be strong, he felt he _had_ to be strong, and he’d felt that way for so long that it seemed a monumental task to just let _go_ , for once. His life with Marcus, before Sherlock, had been so hard, and so draining, it was nearly impossible not to continue on as that strong latent Omega still stuck under the bridges with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He could take anything, he could take care of anyone, but in the end he’d failed to save the one man who meant more to him than any other at that time.

Marcus had given John companionship, safety, and even love, during a time when John could count on nothing but his own skills and street smarts. John couldn’t help feel that he deserved _more_ than this.

Sherlock gripped John’s hand, offering comfort and understanding freely, and John was struck by how much Sherlock had changed, how much his entire world had changed.

John had been given a new life, a new partner, and how appropriate that he realized the full impact of it all just as he was saying goodbye to his very dear, and very beloved, friend.

When the service was over and they were allowed to express their final respects, John was glad that he’d chosen to have an open casket service. Sherlock, with the help of his brother’s deep pockets, managed to choose only the best for Marcus, and their infinite good taste made the casket beautiful and classy instead of gaudy and over-the-top, as it so easily could have been.

They all stood, John numbering one of the last, and made their way in a line towards Marcus.

John was struck, in that moment, left hand in his pocket clenching and unclenching, at the finality of it all.

“I just, I need a minute, please.” He couldn’t hide the small break in his voice.

Sherlock nodded and moved away to speak with the funeral director, motioning his hands towards the double doors and discussing the next step of the service.

John felt dazed, stilled, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand his sudden paralysis. He’d seen many men die – both under his care and out on the field – but somehow this was different. This was personal, this was up close, in his face, and he couldn’t look away.

He couldn’t meet with Marcus’s family, not yet, though he knew they looked his way with questions in their eyes and on the tip of their tongues. They deserved answers, he knew, but he needed to say goodbye to Marcus first.

The line moved slowly, and just as slowly, everyone departed through the church doors and moved through the cemetery. When only the priest was left, he moved towards John, hands clasped over a worn copy of the Bible.

“Take all the time you need, my son.” Then he too exited through the door, following Marcus’s family into the cold morning sunlight.

Now, they were alone, and John concentrated on putting one step ahead of the other, the click of his shined shoes reverberating through the nave.

As if no time had passed, he found himself peering down at the sweet, almost-sleeping face of the friend that gave the ultimate sacrifice for John.

He wondered, briefly, if he deserved it.

John cleared his throat, eyes stinging in a sudden rush of emotion. Marcus looked well, he looked rested and handsome. His shaggy hair was tamed and brushed back, and he cut quite the noble figure in the suit Mycroft had specially made for him. John wanted to run a hand across his brow, like some sort of too late comfort, but instead he pulled his chin down into his chest and squeezed his eyes closed.

He’d known this was coming, this emotional upheaval, this gripping, squeezing _thing_ in his chest that wrapped around his heart and multiplied. Waves of pain rolled through his chest and he grunted once, bringing a hand to his mouth and clenching his teeth against the sobs that threatened to undo his careful composure.

It was a long moment before he could speak, before he could even put together a sentence, but he prevailed, if only just.

“ _Marcus I’m so sorry_.” His throat closed in a glottal spasm, shoulders trembling from the unfairness of it all. “I – I wish this had never happened. I wish you were still here. I wish I could go back and tell you to stop, that I wasn’t worth y-your life. I wish –”

He broke down, left hand gripping the side of Marcus’s coffin, knuckles white against the polished walnut.

“I would have taken care of you, you know? You could have stayed with me…”

The sobs came freely now, though he fought against them, against the visceral ugliness of the situation and the circumstances of Marcus’s death.

“I brought you something,” he swiped a hand across his eyes, snuffling inelegantly and feeling the wetness but not caring. Instead he let out a strangled laugh and pulled one, slightly squished Lion bar from the left pocket of his jacket. “It’s stupid, I mean, I just saw it the other day and thought of you…how much you liked them.”

He flipped the candy bar once in his hand then placed it, gently, and with the reverence of very real love, inside the casket and next to Marcus’s still, pale hand.

“ _I’ll never forget you_.” Finally, he covered his mouth, shoulders hunched, and allowed himself to cry as long, and as hard as he’d wanted since the night he saw the light leave Marcus’s soft brown eyes.

* * *

 

Sherlock was distinctly uncomfortable. Wearing a tie was an abhorrent experience and even though he knew most of the people who’d attended, this type of situation _really_ wasn’t his area.

To be frank, he didn’t know what to _do_.

Sherlock, being a man of action and an apex Alpha, was used to control, he was used to fixing things, solving things…but this – this wasn’t fixable. There was no deduction, no magic trick, no dramatic reveal that would bring Marcus back, and his mate was _hurting._ This was probably the worst of all. John put up a good front, a brave soldierly face in spite of it all, but Sherlock knew, he _knew_ his mate still blamed himself for Marcus’s death.

They’d left John in the church, and though Sherlock would have preferred to do anything _but_ leave him alone, he realized the man needed time to himself.

Julia and Brandy stood not too far from him, smiling reservedly and bouncing their new baby side to side. Sarah leant forward, talking lowly to the baby girl and sending small little smiles to Bill.

Sherlock swung his gaze round to Marcus’s family, standing by themselves, a small group of three that looked quite lost underneath a gently swaying willow. The woman dabbed at her eyes, her face blotchy and red. She cried throughout the entire service, and while Sherlock could understand (on a scientific level, of course) the depth of feeling a mother had for her son, he could not empathize. An older man wrapped his arm tight around the woman’s shoulders, slowly rubbing his cheek against her temple. He scented her sadly, offering solace both to her and himself, while a younger man gripped the woman’s free hand.

The younger gentleman looked very much like Marcus, and Sherlock could only assume it was brother, close in age, probably younger. He lived alone, worked long hours, and was renting the ill-fitting suit that was entirely too snug around his shoulders. He was surely a Beta, and it was easy to see that –

 _No._ Sherlock turned away, forcefully halting the usual rapid deductions. It somehow felt very inappropriate to dissect the grieving family, and that led to another realization.

Sherlock Holmes was certainly not the same man now as he was before. Just a short while ago, really only a matter of months, he would have deduced everything about the family down to their last meal and what brand dishwashing liquid they used to clean their dishes. But now it felt intrusive, borderline unseemly, and he knew exactly who was responsible for his change of heart.

His thoughts were never far from his Omega, and Sherlock fancied he could scent him even through the heavy northern pine doors of the church. John’s pheromones carried a complicated mixture of hope and sorrow, these days, but today, today it was rife with grief and regret.

John’s scent was strong, a little _too_ strong, and Sherlock furrowed his brow, sniffing the air and taking an unconscious step towards the church.

Quite suddenly, Lilliana burst into tears, her face purpling alarmingly and her angry little fists waving in front her mother. Brandy was startled at first, before tearing up herself, biting at her lower lip and accepting a hug from Julia, who wasn’t looking entirely too emotionally stable either.

Sherlock more than felt the rush of deep, deep sorrow that seeped from inside the church and settled into his bones, he _smelled_ it.

Behind him, Marcus’s mother wailed inconsolably.

_Christ, John._

He fought against the scent, though it was difficult. It bled into his brain, filling it with melancholy and hopelessness. Sherlock lurched towards the church and threw the doors open.

John had stepped away from the coffin, but he was shaking with tears, and broadcasting his emotions like a charged beacon. This was no normal scent, this was a hundredfold stronger than anything he’d ever encountered, and it was coming directly from his mate.

“John,” he managed, though he could feel his throat closing tight, “please, you must – you have to calm down.”

John didn’t seem to hear him at first, alone as he was in his own misery.

Sherlock grasped him by his shoulders and gave him one, hard shake.

Instantly, the scent abated, and John looked up at him through glassy eyes.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

He bit back a sigh of relief.

“The question is, John, do you know what _you_ are doing?”

John appeared confused, but he caught his breath and swiped at his face. “I don’t understand.”

“Your scent, your emotions, you – do you really _not know?_ ”

“You’re my bond-mate Sherlock, you always feel my emotions, what’s wrong with that?”

“ _No_ , John, _everyone_ ’s feeling your emotions. Look, just – come with me.” He pulled John by his hand towards the doors, opening one side to show the cemetery proper and the group of sobbing funeralgoers.

“I can’t believe this, they’re sad Sherlock. I know that’s hard for you to understand what with your brain and all but –”

“No. They were sad before, now they’re _despondent_. Look at them! Only a few minutes ago they were calm. Sad, yes, but calm. _You_ did this John, they’re responding to _you_.”

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief and looked back at Sherlock.

“I felt it too. Please, try to calm down. I don’t know how you’re projecting like this but try to make every effort to stop, right now.”

* * *

 

John could hardly believe it. It was impossible, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t unusual for an Omega to project strong emotions, fear or happiness, but he’d never heard or read of an Omega’s pheromones subconsciously affecting a group of people to _this_ degree.

Sherlock asked him to calm down, to make it stop. How was he to do that?

With a pleading look from his Alpha, John nodded and straightened his shoulders. He breathed in to a count of five and then out to a count of the same. It was the only thing he could think of, a tried and true way to get a hold of himself. It had always worked before, and today was no exception.

Now that he concentrating, making a concerted effort, he could actually _feel_ it like a spool of thread rewinding, gathering up the emotions he’d flung outside of himself with abandon. He pulled it all back in, tamping down on all the pain and hurt he’d unknowingly broadcasted out to the poor, unsuspecting souls who had no idea they were being manipulated.

Lilliana stopped crying with a short hiccup, Sarah breathing a sigh through a sob, and Marcus’s mother offered her husband a watery smile.

“Jesus, I…I had no idea.”

“I didn’t either, but there is no other explanation.”

“This is what she meant, Irene I mean, this is what she meant about controlling others.”

“I believe so.” Sherlock frowned, already connecting the dots and coming to the inevitable conclusion. “You have to be more careful John.”

He laughed, a high note of incredulousness tainting the sound, “how do I learn not to do something if I’ve no idea I’m doing it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond then hesitated before opening it again. “I…I don’t know. But I think we should give it a few more minutes, don’t you?”

* * *

 

Sherlock, John, and Marcus’s brother and father all carried the casket to its final resting place. There were no more words, and John reminded himself to just breathe and make it through this last bit. When he was home, when he was once again in familiar territory, he could let himself _feel_ again.

Afterwards, Sherlock and John approached Marcus’s family. They were sombre, and only spoke to each other in quiet, stilted conversation.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my bond-mate John Watson, we’re so very sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Julie Chandler, an elderly Omega, regarded both men with a keen gaze, through red, puffy eyes. “Thank you, both of you. How did you know my son?”

“He was my friend,” John stepped in, nodding to the younger brother and Mr. Chandler, “he meant quite a lot to me. He was incredibly special.”

She smiled and dabbed at her eyes once more. “This is my husband Robert, and my youngest son, Theo. We’re all so grateful you came. After Marcus disappeared, we thought we’d never –”

Obviously, she meant to say more, but she cast her gaze downwards, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Her husband, a robust and strong looking Alpha, gathered her close.

“I’m sorry we were unable to find you before…before all this. Marcus never talked much about his family.”

Theo smiled sadly, twisting a well-used tissue in his hands. “No, after the accident he really wasn’t the same. I visited him often in the home, but I’m not sure he even knew who I was.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did Marcus get hurt? What happened?”

“Car accident,” Mr. Chandler offered, “Marcus was hit by a drunk driver on Christmas Eve about two years ago. His job required he live in the city, so he was on his way to Hertfordshire to visit us.”

Mrs. Chandler sniffed anew, reaching into her bag to pull out a fresh tissue.

“We didn’t even know until the next day. He always worked late for the bank, took his job very seriously that one.” Mr. Chandler’s lips twisted with suppressed grief, “we thought nothing of it, figured he’d show up in time for dinner.”

Theo gripped his father’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

John stole a look at Sherlock, whose face was carefully controlled, and shifted his feet, suddenly nervous. “If you don’t mind, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to know more about Marcus. I only knew him a short while. Perhaps we could meet for lunch sometime?”

A change came over Mrs. Chandler’s face, a sudden brightening of the eyes, and she smiled. “I think that would be nice, don’t you Robert? I’d like to hear about Marcus’s time with you as well, John.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock addressed them all, “I’ll give you our contact information.”

* * *

 

The drive home took longer than expected, and John couldn’t help but clench his jaw impatiently. All he wanted was to go home, possibly drink some tea, and certainly find comfort in his oft-infuriating but always wonderful mate.

When they climbed up the seventeen steps to 221B, John felt torn open and more than just a little emotionally exhausted. Sherlock seemed to sense this immediately as he offered to take John’s coat, and then his suit jacket.

John felt numb, empty, and even though he’d known this day was coming, it was nothing he could have prepared for. Sherlock accompanied him to his chair, fluffed his Union Jack pillow and unlaced John’s shoes once he sat down.

His mate did this all unasked, with a quiet and simple competence that instilled a swell of adoration and love inside John’s chest.

“Come here,” he said softly, letting a slight grin ease onto the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock looked up at him, his vivid eyes shining, then leant forward and enveloped John in a warm, and quite wonderful, hug. He nosed at John’s neck, inhaling his scent with abandon, and John did the same, relishing the unique and delicious mix of pheromones exclusive to his Alpha.

And then, as he knew it would, the stress of the day and the incredible sorrow caused by Marcus’s sacrifice stimulated a flood of tears John could no longer hold back. He clutched at Sherlock, twisting the man’s jacket viciously and let the tears come.

Sherlock held him, one warm hand over the back of John’s neck, the other around his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispered into his hair.

But no, really, it wasn’t.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is an awfully sad chapter I know, but I had to address Marcus's death. 
> 
> Update 7/4/17: I have decided to make this a one-shot, for now. I am working on several other WIPs and I would like to focus on them. That being said, I do plan to continue this and make it a full-fledged story of its own in the future. Not sure when that will be though. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Subscribe to be notified when I do decide to make this a multi-chapter fic!


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